Lines
by Khyron-Prime
Summary: As this story opens, an accident at a construction site is sure to be the next case for Paradigm City's most revered negotiator, Roger Smith.


Wow. Its been a while since I wrote this, but now I finally got around to posting it. As a fan of The Big O, I have changed very much since the time I wrote this, and I can feel it. However, ignorance is the beginning, and hopefully, when I come to continue this, knowledge will produce the fireworks.  
----Thank you all for reading my works. I am certainly open to comments, criticisms, and--in the case of this work-in-progress--viable suggestions. Thank you very much.  
-  
My name is Roger Smith. I perform a necessary duty for the people of this city of amnesia. They call me a negotiator, and all that that really means is that when people want justice--but not police or military involvement--they call me, and I get the job done...for a fee.  
  
Things are always changing in Paradigm City, probably because there's nowhere else to go but up and out of the wreckage its people inherited forty years ago. People forgot everything before then, and even the use of the simplest electrical equipment had to be relearned. But humans are an adaptable species, and as always, life must go on.  
-  
One-Twenty-sixth street was filled with the groans of laboring men and the wails of machinery for the twelfth straight day. As people passed, their hands warmed within their pant pockets, and a few lifeless souls warmed themselves with the bottles in their hands. Yet while goliath metal machines called 'tractors' lifted tons of loose earth from the ground, none of the passers-by paid them any attention--Paradigm City had been being reconstructed for so long that its very nature had become a part of normal life.  
  
There were those whose memories included a Paradigm City whose roads were blocked by crushed buildings up to Fourth Street, and could remember none before. That was ages ago, now, and Paradigm City had even begun to construct new roads to suit its people. The Paradigm President's office found that new roads seemed to make people happy--convince them that the city was no longer buried by the memories of the past, and even though automobiles were a rare sight indeed, the sight of paved and painted asphalt was a wonderful sight to any pedestrian in town. Life proceeded as it always had in Paradigm City; there was little that changed or could affect the spirit of the people there.  
  
The black car turned into the lines of One-Twenty-Sixth street, arousing the attentions of even the most dejected of citizens. Cruising at a speed of a casual Sunday drive, its presence was always felt, a shot of lost memories still existing in the present day. It was more than fifteen feet long from its tremendous hood-space to the rear bumper, which gently sloped into the driver's cabin, and this made its already uncommon presence all the more notable when the people would go home at night. True, the tinted windows lent their mystery, too, but few knew of the driver, and even fewer actually cared.  
  
Roger Smith, Paradigm City's top negotiator, bore that distinction. He slowed his classic car to a snail's pace as the contruction workers hurriedly made a path for him to pass by--"After all," the foreman said, "its not too often that you get to see a machine like thattravelling around the city." Inside, the negotiator smiled and waved in respectful gratitude, but his only return was a clan of awestruck workers in denim.  
  
"One-Twenty-Sixth Street," Roger told himself. "Before that, it was One-Twenty-Fifth, and before that, they were building Tenth. New buildings give people places to live and make live, and parks give kids a place to play, but new roads..." His smooth, sighing breath sent a single speck of sawdust from his suit collar. The noise of plowing machinery again echoed in the background, bringing upon a smile, which seemed out-of-place on his stoic face.  
  
"...New roads...perhaps we only build them so we have a way to run away from this city."  
----END PART ONE-  
Roger Smith was used to the sounds, as were all the citizens, but when the crash echoed in his ears, his right foot slammed the brakes of his automobile, sending it sliding to a halt. A crashing of metal and concrete slammed to the ground, and as Roger spun his head to glimpse the source, he could only see the faint figures of some of the workers through the cloud of dirt that had arisen about them.  
  
But he didn't need to see anything right now; the horrified screams of workers and nearby pedestrians told the story. Sweat beaded upon the black-clad negotiator's brow, his eyes frozen forward as he watched the dust clear. And by the time that this occurred, the men were already hard at work, throwing concrete blocks and dirt from the pile that now dominated the unfinished roadway.  
  
"We gotta hurry!" the foreman yelled. "Everybody get on here!"--he ordered his men, leading the way with his own bare hands, and was quick to order the machinery away. However, the damage was already done, and all of the blood and sweat of the men on the scene couldn't fight the fact that the lone arm protruding from the pile was not moving.  
  
The black car in the distance restarted its engine and took its leave of the scene without its usual attention-gathering. Roger Smith's hands gently guided the wheel through the roughly paved road of One-Twenty-Sixth street, and lifted his sunglasses back to his eyes. As he turned back onto the established path of One-Twenty-Fifth street, he told himself:  
  
"Its not my job to get involved with people's business, no matter the circumstances. When they need someone to speak on their behalf, they can call me."  
  
Little did he know that, as the head of the construction bureau came upon the scene of wreckage, he was thinking about that call the very moment that he arrived.  
-  
Roger Smith tossed his body in his bed as if shaking a seizure from his life. If there was no reason in particular to wake up, he felt no desire to do so. But as he struggled to remain in slumber, the chords of a piano rang outside the double doors marking the entrance to his bedroom. "Ugh...argh...aarrggh!" he groaned, and with a final, futile act--throwing his pillow at the hardwood door--was forced from his bed.  
  
He entered the living room with a stiff tightening of the belt around his robed waist. This, along with the numerous obscenities as he scratched through his slick black hair, was directed at the cause of his awakening: Upon the stool of a grand piano sat R.Dorothy Wayneright, Roger Smith's servant as maid and accompaniment. As always, her face was pale and without emotion, despite the displeasure upon Roger's face. Despite all this, R.Dorothy wasn't a cold human-being...she was an android.  
  
Normally, Roger would have grinded his teeth at this morning disturbance. He began to do so, saying "R.Dorothy Wayneright! How many times--"  
  
Her plain tone interrupted him. "Once again, Roger, you have overslept. It is when I began playing this song that your allotted hours of sleep had already expired." Her mechanically powered head spun inhumanly from his eyes back to the sheet music before her, and Roger was left to simply wander toward one of the many connecting doors--the one leading to his dining room.  
  
Muttering to himself: "...you could at least wait until the afternoon..." Roger called, shaking the cobwebs of the previous night out of his mind.  
  
To Be Continued 


End file.
